'I spent 10 years pretending to love my breast implants. Here's the truth.'

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I've been lying to myself for ten years. A decade of untruths. Not overtly. Silently, I've allowed it to seep into my pores. To become me. My flesh.

It coursed through my veins and spilt out of my mouth when I uttered the words — "I love them!"

I'm talking about my breasts. Well, they aren't technically mine anymore.

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After meeting the surgeon on a Tuesday, I had my flesh sliced open on Wednesday.

In 2015, my Instagram feed was full of breast augmentation pages, and it was almost impossible not to feel like my barely A-cups were enough.

The lie wasn't just that I loved them. The lie was that they made me a better version of myself. More desirable. More whole.

I was sold the lie that plastic surgery was empowering and I coughed up six grand of my hard-earned cash to have that lie stitched into my own skin.

I told myself that I was making the decision for me. But I wasn't.

My body was too big, I had always thought. Perhaps if I had large breasts, it would balance out the rest of me. I dieted for seven days before my surgery in an attempt to shrink my body, the very body I was about to cut open and change — to make it more palatable for men, for other women, for the internet.

The 2000's 'girlboss' filter had severely skewed my vision, selling me the idea that empowerment came in the form of beauty — and I couldn't wait to wear a backless dress with no bra.

Staring in the mirror after surgery was horrifying.

I had been told that they would be swollen and high, but I truly wasn't prepared to feel like a visitor in my own body.

I turned the shower on, stood over the sink and cried — God forbid my Mother heard me.

I imagined I'd feel womanly; instead I just felt warped, like a stranger in my own skin.

Image: Supplied.

Recovery involved a barbaric ritual of pushing down my breasts each night to help them 'settle'.

I took on this homework with the intensity of someone trying to nail a test that no one else was taking — perhaps if I pushed really hard, I would feel beautiful and the world would start to spin again.

After my Trinny-Woodall-esque transformation, I couldn't stand the way eyes lingered. The looks felt invasive — not empowering.

I covered up more than ever before, but as my now husband so eloquently put it, "snow-covered mountains are still mountains, babe."

That one stung, more than I cared to admit. Mostly because I'd brought it on myself. No matter how much fabric I wrapped myself in, I couldn't hide from the weight of being seen.

Even my wedding dress covered my chest — modesty vital with that many eyes on me.

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Fast-forward to today — after two pregnancies and breastfeeding for a combined four years, my lovely lady lumps whisper sweet nothings to my belly button.

If I don't wear a bra at night, my two-year-old rolls in for a cuddle and promptly steam rollers one underneath his shoulder. That, my friends, is pure torture.

Like a slow, silent gas leak, it's clear I haven't been immune to the beauty culture we all breathe in. But I'm now acutely aware that a body is just a body. And beyond that, bodies can do incredible things.

The viral tattoo meme 'NO RAGRETS' flashes before my eyes and I think — screw that! I do regret them.

Perhaps I'm not evolved enough to chalk the experience down to being 'what you wanted at the time'. But I do know what I want right now.

As I sat in the car park after my surgeon appointment, I cried. Gripping the steering wheel, a smile erupted on my face because I could finally acknowledge it was time for the lie to die.

This time, the decision feels different — not to prove something, but to let myself just be me. Looks like my seat on the itty bitty tittie committee is free again — and I'm stoked to reclaim it.

Feature image: Supplied.